The Melting Ice Man: Beauty
by theraggedypond
Summary: The first in a trilogy of short Mystrade stories, Beauty is simple enough. Mycroft has intimacy issues with a certain area of his body. Lestrade shows him just how childish such a thing is. 'Beauty' will be followed by two other short stories. This one is complete fluff. All around. I can't believe how warm and fuzzy it makes me feel. Enjoy the read!


****My first Mystrade fic. Actually, more of a mini-series really. I'll have two more to come after this one. They will however, be separate stories. However, enjoy!

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**The Melting Ice Man**

**One: Beauty**

"Gregory, stop."

"Oh come off it, My…" his lips trailed lower down his body.

"No, Gregory. Stop it."

"Mycroft…shut up…" he felt his lips prepare to brush that unseemly part of him and Mycroft shoved. Hard. Gregory hit the floor hard without any warning and Mycroft sat up. "I said _ENOUGH_." he spat. Rising, he threw his robe about himself and left the room. His lover looked after him in shock.

"Ow, hey-what-Mycroft? _MYCROFT!_" Gregory rubbed his head and clambered up after him. The elder Holmes always had a habit of dashing off whenever he tried to do this. It was childish. "My?" he whispered softly, going from room to room. "My, where'd you go?" he heard a small sound resonate from the living room.

Mycroft glared at him over his shoulder as he entered. Gregory put his hands up, and he turned his back on him. His fingers spread across the piano with practiced ease. He played. The piece was loud, disharmonized, and brusque. The detective inspector decided that he didn't like it. He approached the other man with caution.

"What's the problem, My?"

The key changed to a lower, drearier scale. His features were hard.

"Mycroft. Tell me what I did wrong." Gregory came up behind him. His head dropped to his shoulders while his arms snaked around his waist. "I can fix it if you do…" he promised.

A lower scale.

"Then let me make it up to you, whatever it is." Gregory insisted. "Come on…come back to bed." His hands trailed lower with his words and Mycroft pushed him away again.

"Don't, Gregory." He commanded. He did not turn at the statement; only fold his hands back on the piano and slump forward in pensiveness. Gregory rolled his eyes at the statement and pulled up a chair behind him. He watched his lover's back rise and fall for a moment or so. "Mycroft." He said. Only a slight change in posture indicated his listening. "Why can't I touch you there? You're being ridiculous." The elder Holmes chuckled quietly from underneath his hands.

"I am many things, Detective Inspector, but I am certainly not ridiculous." He murmured.

Gregory rolled his eyes again. "Sure you're not." He leaned back and crossed his arms. "So explain why I can't touch your stomach then." Mycroft sighed as if the simple question was of immense importance. With a dramatic turn, he faced his lover. He clasped his hands together and leaned into them, a trait, Gregory noticed, that Sherlock seemed to have picked up from him. He bowed his head for a time. When he looked up, his normally brown eyes were…slightly distressed. Apprehensive, even. He spoke, slowly, carefully, words falling awkwardly off his tongue. He normally didn't confide in others, naturally. But this was Gregory. He spoke:

"My stomach…" Mycroft began. There was a small hesitancy in his voice. "Sherlock teases me about my dietary practices with consistency, as you know doubt have noticed by now." He laughed softly. "The reason being because when I was younger, I did not maintain what you would call the…_correct_ eating habits. Sherlock ate too little, I…" he looked at the carpet with far away eyes. "a bit too much. That is why…" Mycroft trailed off and looked up at Gregory. His eyes still held that glimmer of hurt, that small amount of insecurity. And it was so rare a thing to see that from the elder Holmes that Gregory took it and ran with it.

"Mycroft…" he sat down next to him and smiled softly. "You don't want me touching your stomach because it's a little chubby?"

Mycroft scoffed. "'Chubby' is not the word I would use," he said in distaste, "but yes." He arched and eyebrow at the other man's suddenly thoughtful expression. "What?"

Gregory threw him over his shoulder and carried him back to the bedroom, despite his protesting. He landed on the beds with a soft thump, and, before he could rise, felt his body press down against his own. "Mycroft." Gregory kissed his forehead. "Holmes." His lips found his nose. "You big bloody idiot." He brought their mouths together softly and Mycroft sighed. When they parted, he looked up with a resentful expression, frowning. He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "Do let me up, Gregory." He commanded gently.

"Oh no." Gregory kissed his neck. Against his better judgment, Mycroft's fingers wound through his hair. It was too much. "Not until you realize it." His lips whispered against his throat and Mycroft groaned. He squirmed under him and struggled to clear his normally perfect head. It took several attempts to do so.

"Realize _WHAT_, exactly?" Mycroft managed to say with some difficulty.

Gregory chuckled against his throat and slid back up his body. His lips found his again. The sensation was so soft, so pure. Mycroft looked up at him. My, he was a distracting display. One thing he had always admired about Gregory was his ability to read him like a well-worn book. His eyes were always so telling. And tonight there was so many shades, so many nuances of emotion in them. There was both passion and pain, both wonder and sadness, and out of all them, love. The sight was somewhat…"beautiful." Gregory had been saying something to him.

"Hm?" Mycroft inquired, slowly winding his fingers through his silver hair.

"You're beautiful, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft felt his throat catch at the statement. He chose to ignore it and turned his head. "Please don't try to be a romantic, Gregory. I'm afraid that it doesn't suit you." His lover laughed against his chest. "A guy can try." Gregory murmured, kissing his sternum. His lips soon ventured lower and Mycroft froze. His muscles tightened under the other man's careful fingertips.

"Don't." his words were soft. Gregory rose back up and kissed him again. "Don't move. Don't run." He breathed against his mouth. "Just let me." Mycroft obeyed with obvious reluctance as he slid back down.

Lightly, he felt his fingers push open his robe. Mycroft tensed. The fingers stopped. He turned his head to the side with closed eyes. Surely Gregory was waiting to see what he might do. But he held still. They did not move. Mycroft flinched when he felt the rough, calloused fingers caress his skin. Gregory chuckled and he bit back a sharp retort. Slowly, softly, the fingertips trailed up and down, up and down. They traced his stomach with care. With…love. Mycroft shivered slightly.

It was when he felt Gregory's lips touch him tenderly that Mycroft felt a single tear roll down his cheek. Just one. Not two, nor three. But one single, perfect tear from the mind of a man who wasn't sure how he had come to have this person as his own in the first place. It was a tear of wonder. A tear of gratitude. Gregory kissed his stomach with a content sigh.

"My." He whispered. Mycroft did not turn his head, nor answer. "Mycroft."

"What?" he ground out.

"You're so soft." Gregory murmured against his stomach. Mycroft bristled.

"'_SOFT' _is not the appropriate adjective used to describe _FAT_, Gregory." He answered shortly.

"But it is, My."

"Regardless, I detest that you're continuing to touch it."

"It's a part of you. I'm gonna touch it."

"It's a part of me that I'm not particularly fond of, Gregory, so if you please-"

"_MYCROFT_." Gregory seized his face and turned it to face his own. "I am fond of every part of you. From your chubby stomach to your smart mouth. And that's not gonna change anytime soon, I can tell you that." There was a slight bit of irritation in his words. "Understand?"

For once, no witty rebuttals came to mind. In fact, the only thing that presented itself to the British Government was shock. Mycroft could only nod. Gregory grinned and kissed him, rolling off.

"I love you, Mycroft Holmes." He said sometime later.

"Yes." Mycroft nodded thoughtfully from his side of the bed. "I suppose you do…"

He supposed that he ought to soon express his mutual affection for his silver fox.


End file.
